


Quiet Company

by itsrainingboyz2men



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Sansan Secret Valentine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsrainingboyz2men/pseuds/itsrainingboyz2men
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entry to the tumblr Sansan Secret Valentine fic exchange - prompt by amplifyme.tumblr.com: "a conversation we weren't privy to in the books."</p>
<p>Sandor is posted outside of Sansa's chamber door in the Red Keep, and the two have something of a conversation. Post-AGOT, pre-Blackwater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Company

The sun was on the horizon when the maid finally brought Sansa her supper.

Sansa had, for the most part, been alone since her father’s execution. Cersei didn't feel a traitor’s daughter belonged at court during the day, and Joff had only pulled her from her room to show her the heads of her friends and family on pikes around the Keep and to use his guards’ fists to keep her in check. Aside from the maids that changed her bed sheets and brought her food, she had been alone all this day and all the four before it. And even then, Ser Loras had released her from her chambers only to sup with the queen, who had once again reminded Sansa that her father had been a traitor.

As the maidservant backed out of the room, Sansa's picked-at lunch tray in hand, Sansa noticed the Hound standing sentry before her door. Yesterday it had been Ser Meryn, and the day before, Ser Boros. Desperate for conversation, if only to use her voice once more or to hear another person breathe, Sansa picked a small plate from her supper tray and cracked open the door. 

"Ser?" Sansa said as she pulled open the heavy wood.

"I've told you before, girl," the Hound growled, "I'm no ser."

She gingerly stepped out into the hallway, holding the plate in front of her with both hands, like a gift. "I only wanted to offer you some of my supper," she said, her voice small. "You've been standing there all day."

"Not so long as that, little bird," he said. He made no move toward the plate in her hand. "I only replaced Ser Loras at midday."

Sansa didn't hide the confusion on her face. Usually the Kingsguard kept watch of her chambers in long, drawn shifts - all day or all night.

Sandor added gravely, in almost a hushed manner, "Prince Joffrey prefers those of us you fear to keep watch over you."

She wanted to say she did not fear him. She wanted to say that somehow, inexplicably, the Hound's presence made her feel safer than any of the other guards, even the beautiful Ser Loras. She wanted to say that Joff was wrong about Sandor, who was the only one who had done anything to help her, even if it had only been a few words of advice and a handkerchief. She wanted to say these things, but she could not. The truth was that even though he did manage to make her feel safe, some part of Sansa still feared him. Not Sandor, the man with whom she was dealing right now, but the Hound, the man with the growling, gaping darkness within him, the man who had grabbed her arm hard enough to bruise and forced her to stare at his horrific burns, the man who had been eaten alive by the flames of a brutal rage.

She stared out down the other end of the hallway. "I'm just glad to see a different sight than that room," she said. "Seeing the same thing every day, speaking to no one, it is enough to drive you mad."

Sandor studied the girl as she studied the patterned floors and tapestry-laden walls. Silence makes her speak her mind, he thought. That was dangerous. Her door was still open, and the light from the sunset seemed to turn her hair to fire. He looked away again, saying nothing.

"They are going to kill me," Sansa said. She said it because she had to say it to somebody. What Sandor heard in her tone wasn't sorrow or fear, so much as a tired resignation. The girl sounded old. 

"Little bird," he said, "don't be stupid. They won't kill you because they can use you." Sandor wasn't so sure he was right - Joffrey was as mad as they came and Cersei was losing control over him - but he knew the girl was useful. Her brother, the Young Wolf as they called him, would not attack King's Landing as long as his sister was still inside and at the mercy of the Lannisters. 

She sighed. "Either they are going to kill me because my brother is a traitor, or they are going to wed me to a stranger to make or keep an ally, or they are going to keep me locked in that room forever. They will never let me go home. No matter how I come out of this, I will surely have died one sort of death or another."

Sandor could not argue. The little bird may have always come off as childish or naive, but she was not stupid. He knew he needed to make her return to her chambers. But for reasons he could not have and probably should not have explained, he did not.

"You're not afraid," he said. It was a statement, not a question. 

"What good is it being afraid? I am tired of fearing them." The girl leaned against the wall beside her door and slid down until she was sitting on the floor, her legs stretched out before her, still covered by the light colored fabric of her dress.

"You're not angry either."

"No," she said quietly, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "I'm furious."

Despite the unlikeliness of it all, Sandor understood the song the little bird sang. To be angry was one thing, but to be furious and have no way to settle the score was exhausting. Sandor understood, because he had been living that life for nearly as long as he could remember.

The two of them stayed like that, her sitting, him standing, both silent, until well after the sun finally finished setting and the lines of lit candles on the walls provided the only light. 

Sansa's back began to ache from sitting in such a hard place for so long, so she went to get up, only to realize that the small plate was still in her hand. Her food would be long cold by now. Surprisingly enough, she did not care. Being in the company of someone, even in silence, was infinitely better than supping alone. Again. 

She carefully balanced the plate as she stood and, without hesitating this time, walked to Sandor and handed the plate to him. "Take it," she said. "I can hear your stomach, and I'm not hungry, myself."

She stepped back into the room and returned to him carrying another plate, this one with two large rolls and a cup of water sitting atop it. "Have this, too."

He tried to hand the smaller plate back to her. "No, little bird, keep your food."

Sansa shook her head and shoved the larger plate into his empty right hand. "Eat," she said, a sort of steel in her voice this time that told him she would not allow him to refuse. Something told him this was the kind of commanding voice her mother may have used on her. Sandor took the plate and nodded.

"I believe I'm going to retire for the evening," Sansa said, ever-so-politely. "The endless conversation has exhausted me. Good night, Sandor."

He said nothing as she returned to her chambers and pushed the door shut. He waited a few moments and scarfed down the rolls and water before eating from the plate she had been holding this entire evening.

Through the door, he heard the little bird singing one of her songs as he bit into the now-cold lemon cake.


End file.
